


1939 Kane Street

by WhatATime



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Damian Wayne is Robin, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake is a Talon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-03-13 08:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: In the penthouse of Wayne Tower on 1939 Kane Street, live three people: a protector, an intellectual, and an adult. The names of these people are Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne, respectively. They go on patrol. They fulfill societal requirements. They lie in the dark with candles and whisper. They live.





	1. Prologue and Act I

In the penthouse of Wayne Tower on 1939 Kane Street, live three people: a protector, an intellectual, and an adult. The names of these people are Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne, respectively. They go on patrol. They fulfill societal requirements. They lie in the dark with candles and whisper. They live.

* * *

Today is Friday. The Sun shines brightly through the large windows of the Wayne Tower penthouse. It’s nearly the weekend, and soon the boys will be free from school, college, and Wayne Enterprises’ boardroom.

Jason is making breakfast. Damian is packing lunches. Tim is mapping patrol routes.

They all know the roles quite well. They could switch if they wanted to, but it’s silently agreed that there’s structure, sanity, and sanctuary in the mundane.

Jason cracks nine eggs in slacks, a polo, and a _Kiss Me, I’m British_ apron. Two are for Damian, three are for Tim, and four are for himself. “What’s the weather like today?” he asks, whisking, yellow threatening to spill out the bowl.

“Look out the window,” Damian snaps; he pours homemade hot chocolate mix into a tupperware and spills some on the plaid vest of his school uniform. The boy dusts himself off and huffs.

“20 percent precipitation, 60 percent humidity, and 11 miles per hour wind with a high of 76,” Tim says, typing away. Every morning, he reads the _Gotham Gazette_ just as their father did. He circles the weather with a blue pen and cuts out any pictures and articles of Waynes.

“Sounds nice.” Jason uses a flat spatula to scramble the eggs. “Do you guys want cheese?”

Tim trades his laptop for files Lucius sent over the night before while they were on patrol.

“No.” Damian zips Jason’s lunch bag, rubs his thumb across the Diana’s vinyl smile. With a sigh, he leaves it be and stands back to inspect the impeccable lunches he’s just prepared. He thinks Alfred would be proud.

“Any tests today?” Jason asks, scraping the cheese-less eggs onto three separate plates before pouring cranberry juice into three tall glasses. He leaves vitamins on the edge of each plate.

“No,” Damian responds, Alfred’s theoretical pride swirling.

“Grammar quiz,” Tim says.

Damian nods.

The three brothers sit at the bar. Tim’s moved his papers. Damian’s transported the lunch boxes to bags. Jason’s set the egg pan, spoon, and whisk into the dishwasher, leaves it open for what’s to come when they’re done eating.

It’s Friday. They’re nearly free.

  
***

Patrol is quiet most nights.

Red Hood and Red Robin alternate patrolling with Robin, not because they hate him. It was Damian’s one request in terms of patrol. He doesn’t want to be with the same person two nights in a row.

Tonight is an exception.

All the Reds and Robins split to combat the Trifecta of Joker, Two-Face, and Penguin, who’ve coordinated three attacks for the same night. They return with a bittersweet victory, faces sour, muscles bruised, and wits at their ends.

Tim’s fallen asleep against Jason on the bench in the dark, cold bunker, sniffling and shivering. Dent threw him in Gotham Harbor a mere hour ago.

“He might be getting sick,” Jason says, untying his boots. Considering physical ailements and genetic enhancements, Tim can’t take cold or wet, so the combination will most definitely bring on a cold at the least and pneumonia at the most.

Damian scoffs. “He’s fine.” The proclamation isn’t made with confidence. He’s already showered and in PJs. Damian always finishes first, prides himself on it. The boy taps Tim’s damp arm. “Drake, come.”

Tim’s eyes crack open. He allows Damian to take his hand and follows the boy off towards the showers, bare feet slapping against the floor.

“I can’t believe you got thrown in,” Damian sighs.

Tim wipes his nose on his sleeve, eyes still droopy. “You say it like I was trying to get thrown in.”

“You weren’t trying not to.”

  
***

Every other Friday night, the brothers come together for a movie. They have a schedule Damian makes every 3 months. They eat snacks Jason buys every Tuesday. They rest under blankets Tim warms in the dryer twenty minutes before the movie begins.

On the third Friday of the month there’s a documentary on space. The narrator whisks the watchers through the universe, shows them rainbow galaxies and magellanic clouds.

There’s something wrong with this scene, though. Let us take a look again.

In the living room of the Wayne Tower Penthouse on 1939 Kane Street are three fleece blankets, a bowl of pretzels, a homemade fruit platter, three cups of lukewarm hot chocolate, a humming television, and no boys.

On the roof of the Wayne Tower Penthouse, however, are Jason Todd, Tim Drake and Damian Wayne. The cold air makes smoke from their breath, and around them is a light, speckled sky. The boys are not wearing vigilante gear. No mask is in sight. Two pairs of blue eyes and a pair of green are glassed over and stare up at a flying figure decorated in red, blue, and gold. They hold each other tight, and while their eyes are glassy, the rest of their faces are plastered with stoicism that puts Seneca to shame.

The man in red, blue, and gold is an alien who some would call Uncle Clark.

The Batman died two months ago along with the original Robin. The person would be called his best friend has not come to Gotham until now. He comes to Gotham with a solemn face and remorseful expression and an apology.

The protector has an arm around both of his brothers. The adult squeezes his hand, and the intellect recedes into his side.

“Really,” Clark says. “I didn’t know. I would’ve come.”

Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson’s joint-funeral is eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. They died in a plane crash on the way to the Ethiopia to meet with leaders on plans to build drinking stations and more health clinics. Every news station is covering it. _The Daily Planet_ ’s own Lois Lane has just been assigned to cover it and write an article.

He lowers to the ground.

They nod, but can a truly admirable, great life be summed up in such words?

“Can I do anything?”

“We’re--” Jason’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “We’re fine, Clark.” _Now._

They are fine now because when Batman and Robin first died they’d waited two days. They’d waited two days for the Justice League to come, for Clark to come; they’d waited for someone to come and comfort them, save them. When no one came, they slid into their roles, a dichotomy of the Bat himself, and stopped waiting to be saved. They saved each other and themselves.

“Just fine.”

  
***

It’s said that kids are a handful. Jason and Tim are fortunate, then, that their kid is a kid only in stature. Damian Wayne is an adult in many ways, hence why he’s the adult of our beloved group. He does his homework on his own. He packs a plethora of elevated vocabulary into his dialogue. He only allows Jason to tuck him in on Fridays. He even manages the family’s money.  


There are few times they have to remember he’s an eleven year old boy and not a forty year old man. A time came in the form of Damian breaking an arm and being dosed with fear toxin. This moment isn’t about the time itself, though. The aftermath is our focus.

Lamplight is special. It sheds enough light to see, but it hides the right amount of the truth to provide comfort to even the most anxious of souls. Lamplight is the preferred light for resting. A break from the truth is why. In lamplight, lies three boys on the youngest one’s bed.

Damian is wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket themed Nightwing. His cheeks glisten from tears and smush against his new oldest brother’s shoulder. Large hands run through his hair and gently scratch his scalp.

He’s scared. He’s scared because monsters are in his closet and under his bed and everywhere but where his eyes stare at Tim’s thin, pale fingers. He hears them growling, screeching his name, sees large rows of sharp pearly white teeth that chomp at him and black slime that loves to swallow hearts its same color. He uses his free hand to clench Jason’s soft, cotton sleeve. Jason is safe. Jason will protect him. He’s a protector, after all.

“Todd,” he says, voice a crackly whisper from his mucus coated throat.

Jason hums in response.

“How many people have you killed?”

“Why?”

If Damian can save enough people to add to his negative balance and make it equal to Jason Todd’s, he thinks he’ll be saved. He knows it. Because Jason Todd’s heart is gold, and Damian can paint his such.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tim says. Tim Drake is the type to not get noticed. No one knows he’s there most of the time. Jason and Damian only half-knew until he spoke. “Inconsequential.”

 

“Why?” Damian asks.

 

“Because everything is inconsequential in the long run.”

 

Our lives are emotional egocentricities. Everything happens because of us, because we say it, because we think it, because we will it to occur in the back of our depraved minds. It’s a truth they don’t put in the history books.

 

Damian pushes himself upright and off Jason’s chest, eyes rising to Tim’s. _Why?_

 

Tim shrugs, gives a sad grin. “Just because.”

***

Every family has dying order, whether it’s acknowledged or not. In most families, the oldest male goes first, then the second oldest, and so on. The Wayne Family is not as queer as they once thought, and this fact has germinated in Tim’s mind.

 

He believes— knows— Jason is next. Death is inevitable. Patterns are invevitable. Tim’s a math man, after all, and the limits are the same coming from both sides. The limit of a pattern as it approaches death is Jason. F(x) = Jason Peter Todd.

 

Knowing, this fact, Tim tries to prepare himself. He doesn’t rely on Jason. Jason is an amenity. He’s nice to have, but they can live without him. They have to live without him. There’s no other practical option. Tim hopes that when Jason does indeed die, Damian will prepare for Tim’s death. It’s important they all prepare.

 

He doesn’t think Jason prepared for Dick’s death. It was quite obivous Jason hadn’t. The day Dick and Bruce died, Jason locked himself in the bathroom for 47 hours. He wouldn’t speak to them, wouldn’t talk to them, wouldn’t do anything.

 

Tim’s determined to make sure that doesn’t happen when Jason’s time comes, not that he’d react the way Jason did. Tim doesn’t know how to feel things deeply enough to cry or shut down. He survives, and that is all.

 

So, while Tim types up a brief with Damian at his feet, he tells the tingles Jason gives him to go away.

 

“Lemme help,” Jason says, taking a seat by Tim on the loveseat, brushing against his thigh.

 

“I don’t need your help.”

 

“You’ve been on that line for the past ten minutes.”

 

“I don’t need your help.” Tim futiley scoots to his left. It’s his attempt to create space he doesn’t have with Jason’s muscle smushed beside him.

 

“I want to.”

 

“No.” It comes out just as harsh as intended. Tim has to be harsh. Jason won’t be here next to him soon, and he can’t need Jason’s help, can’t take it, can’t soak it in. If he does, he’ll go through withdrawal the same way he did with Dick. He can’t lose another friend and older brother, so he needs to lose a friend.

 

Jason frowns, sighs. “What’s this about?”

 

Damian looks up from his sketchpad for the first time. He looks from Tim to Jason over and over again.

 

Now they’re a bickering couple with their kid watching.

 

Tim blushes. “What? Nothing.” Tim’s fingers hover over the keyboard.

 

“No,” Jason says. “There’s something. What is it?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Drake does not want your assistance.” Damian subtly nods at Tim. He always takes sides in these things. Contary to his and Tim’s conflicting rapport before the moved to 1939 Kane Street, it’s usually Tim’s side he takes. For that, Tim is grateful.

 

“I can do it myself,” Tim adds. He’s fine. He’s independent. Always has been. Always will be. He needs no one. He takes no prisoners into the posionous circle that is being close to him. He thinks that if he pushes Jason out the circle, the protector will be around to keep his heart safe a while longer.

 

“I know…” Jason doesn’t seem surprised. He sounds hurt. He’s every right to be, though, Reader. His heart has been stabbed by the only two people he has left, and he doesn’t know what he did to make them stop loving him, needing him. He needs to be neeeded.

 

Gold is a soft metal. It melts easily. The smallest amount of heat will make it drip and dribble. It doesn’t evaporate, though. It never gets the release of dissipation. It’s always there, begging to be shaped again.


	2. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief can kill people, too.

An overview of the present is what, dear Reader, you’ve been shown in these earliest chapters. It’s important to know and understand a world before one truly goes inside it, and although a small portion of what you’ve been shown is indulgent, it all comes together to start our story.

 

Now, I’d like to formally welcome you to 1939 Kane Street where three solemn boys create something not all bad and not fully deprived of a nurturing spirit. Our story is not of the real, but of the unreal. Ghosts of the dead haunt the boys. Ghosts leave them sleepless and melancholic. This ailment affects them all in different ways, but it just as heartbreaking in each one.

 

Inside 1939 Kane Street, Tim Drake watches the darkness. His eyes flash gold as they always do when he disconnects with the corporeal world. His laptop is limp in his hands and the blanket that was around his shoulders has fallen. Tim does not notice this.

 

Jason does. “What’s wrong?” he asks, lowering himself beside Tim. He knows Tim is a paranoid soul, but he also knows Tim is right with a percent chance of 25. It’s a high enough margin that he examines anything that Tim’s eyes catch with proper, calm, moderated concern. “Hm?” He wraps Tim’s shoulders, gazing out the window as he does so. “What d’you see?” It’s a rhetorical question.

 

Tim mutters something unintelligible.

 

Jason’s fussing over the teen like a mother her child. “…catch a cold,” he mutters.

 

Tim pushes Jason’s hands away.

 

“Leave him be, Todd.” Damian sits by Tim with a bowl of grapes, popping one into the teen’s mouth.

 

“He’s not patrolling tonight.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Put him to bed before—”

 

Damian shakes his head. “He’s fine here. He won’t move.”

 

This is true, but some truths feel slippery like ice and bound to crack, leaving the believer dead in freezing water. Jason doesn’t at all like the cold. “He needs more sleep anyway.” The boys are not honest. They dance around their points and let their combs of remarks drip with sweet, subtextual honey.

 

The most humorous portion of this conversation is the exclusion of Tim, the subject. Tim never hears them when he’s deep in thought. He turns his ears off and his senses on. He feels them, but he doesn’t see them. He’s of this scene, but he’s not in it. His eyes flash because of it.

 

“Very well.” Damian feeds Tim another grape as if Tim’s more a pet than a brother. “Have you lectures tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah. 11 and 2.”

 

Damian nods, blinks. “I’ve only an assessment 1st period. I can come after if—”

 

“Nah… hour break in between… We’ll figure it out… Besides…”

 

“He might wake up.”

 

“Exactly.” Jason lifts Tim to his feet and wraps an arm around Tim’s waist to keep him on track. “Beddy-bye time,” he says gently.

 

Soon enough, glowy eyes fall and thought slows. Tim succumbs to sleep, and Red Hood and Robin leave to subdue the night.

***

Damian Wayne is alive. This fact surprises him more than anyone else. He breathes. His heart beats. He has every limb relatively intact. He’s 12. He has good marks in school. He sometimes beats Jason in sparring. What he has that he’s most connected with, though, is his art.

 

Damian Wayne loves his art. He paints trends. He paints abstract. He mimics. He creates. He elaborates. He has every kind of paintbrush and every sized canvas. He has oil paint, watercolor paint, acrylic. He has pencils, markers, pastels. He has every color perceptible to the eye. He has the world in a manner of speaking.

 

So, in his world, his art room, Damian Wayne paints and draws with every free moment he has.

 

He does this because even though he’s alive today, it’s very likely who won’t be alive tomorrow, and he needs to get all the art down so as to not die with an idea or incomplete work. He lives at the mercy of Ra’s al Ghul, a man with little mercy that can run out when he tells it to. He lives at the mercy of whim, of perfection, of an acidic green pit that has less efficacy with every use.

 

He doesn’t know how much time he has left, so he has to get it all down. Today, a panda graces the canvas. It will look big. It will look fluffy. Damian’s already decided that much.

 

“Your infatuation with animals has yet to amaze me.” Tim sits by him, eyes blue to Damian’s relief.

 

“What did you want?” he asks. Talking always slows him down.

 

Tim shrugs. He sniffles and wipes his nose.

 

“You’ve come for something.” Tim never comes for nothing.

 

“I need a favor.”

 

Damian nods, releasing a long stroke to make the Panda’s foot.

 

“I can’t go out…” Because it’s too cold.

 

Damian knows Tim isn’t supposed to go out on days where it’s very cold. Every Winter Day isn’t very cold, but today is very cold, and Tim doesn’t do well with very cold. He gets sick or goes Talon; the latter of which Jason’s not equipped to deal with, and Damian’s not the temperament to. “And?”

 

“It’s… you know… Dick’s…”

 

Damian’s eyes widen. He’d forgotten in all honesty. He’s been attempting to forget a lot of things, and it seems Dick Grayson’s birthday has been put away with them. A small bud of pain pierces his heart. Dick never would’ve forgotten his birthday.

 

Tim doesn’t notice Damian’s reaction, fingers playing with Damian’s dry paint brushes and eyes on the ground. “I didn’t want to ask Jay,” Tim says before pausing. “I have flowers.” Because Tim was okay to go out yesterday when a breeze was all. “Some for B too.” There’s snow on the gravestones today.

 

Damian nods. “Very well.” He swallows. “I have to finish—”

 

“That’s fine. I know.”

 

Grief can kill people too, and Damian needs to finish the panda. The panda whose face is now frowning and fluffy fur dampening.

***

Jason Todd is confused.

 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he’s quite sure it shows. He doesn’t know how to care for two children. He’s lucky the children are so independent they don’t need him much. He doesn’t know what he’d do if they did. He doesn’t know how to be Batman, though he tries. He’s lucky only the Joker knows it’s not Bruce. He doesn’t know how to beam up to the Watchtower and clean out Bruce’s room. He’s lucky no one’s called to ask him to.

 

He thinks he shouldn’t have told Clark to stay away for a bit, but he knows Tim and Damian don’t like Clark and think Superman should’ve showed up the day the Batman fell, and that he’s incapable for not. Jason agrees, but he wishes he hadn’t.

 

At the moment, he doesn’t know what to do, so he imprisons himself. He locks the door to his bedroom. He turns his phone off. He ignores the noise, Tim’s knocking, Damian’s jeers. He embraces the silence. He sleeps.


	3. Act III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you promised to post the next, already written chapter on the 6th or 7th and remember you didn't on the 8th.

Outside 1939 Kane Street, cries of thunder and streaks of lightning splatter a gray, clouded dark navy sky. Harsh rain and hail abuse windows and buildings. Not a soul wanders in the storm. All are inside somewhere, hiding so as to not incur God’s wrath more.

 

Inside 1939 Kane Street, another funeral is being had.

 

Jason Peter Todd. Not a husband, not a son, only a brother. Dead at the green age of 21. No one knew he was only 21 until Gotham University received his obituary. He had a butchered doctorate in English Literature and Composition.

 

It’s in the news, but it’s not aired live. He was a Wayne, but he was one of the Waynes people forgot existed until the mass produced Wayne Family Christmas Card came out and there were four boys instead of three.

 

The News speaks:

_Bruce Wayne’s second ward was declared ‘Dead on Arrival’ by paramedics when he was found dead on the route he usually took home from his Gotham University classroom. Authorities say it was a mugging. His watch and wallet are gone. We think he was killed by a gunshot to the heart, though we can’t be sure, and no suspects have been identified. Commissioner Gordon of GCPD says they are working hard to find who did this. Follow the Gotham Gazette on Twitter to get—_

 

The boys stop listening.

***

Tim Drake is not Jason Todd. Damian can’t figure out why.

 

Tim Drake sleeps. A lot. He does during the Winter, anyway. Damian knows that owls hibernate, that Tim’s nearly an owl, but it irks him how Tim’s always sleeping. He doesn’t know why. It could be that perceived laziness doesn’t suit him. It could be that he’s bored and lonely. It could be that he fears Tim will ruin the delicate schedule they put together when Jason was still here.

 

“Drake,” he says, poking Tim in the cheek. It is 5:00am. Jason gets up at 5 in the morning every Friday to start laundry and go shopping. Damian always accompanies him to ensure the proper things are purchased. “Drake, it’s 5.”

 

Tim’s eyes slowly open. They’re gold before they slowly go blue. “What?” he slurs.

 

“It’s 5 o’clock.”

 

“And?”

 

“We need to go shopping.”

 

Tim blinks, stares. “Oh… yeah. I— gimme like three minutes?”

 

Damian nods. “Very well. I’ll excuse this tardiness and wait in the car. Don’t daddle.”

 

The day goes on. Everything’s different and strange and uncomfortable, but Damian gets to school on time and no one dies. There are problems, though: Damian’s six minutes earlier than usual for school; dinner is too hot; patrol is too quiet, and there won’t be a Jason to balance it out the next night.

 

Damian wishes Tim Drake was Jason Todd, but he’ll have to get used to Tim Drake being Tim Drake.

***

It is Winter. It’s very, _very_ cold outside. Tim thinks that anything colder might turn him to glass and shatter him while he sleeps. Tim thinks that might be better than waking up at 5 a.m. to take Damian shopping because that’s how Jason did it.

 

He doesn’t complain, though. He puts on three sweaters and two pairs off socks under his coat, drags himself into the abandoned supermarket and painstakingly follows Damian’s list while the boy stares at him disapprovingly. He buys everything Jason would buy.

 

He comes back come and makes breakfast the same way Jason would.

 

He decides that, for today, he’ll be Jason Todd. It’s easier than being hypothermic Tim Drake, and it will make a grieving Damian Wayne happy.

***

It is Winter. Owl’s hibernate. Tim Drake’s an owl living in a Gotham Winter. He can’t hibernate with a business to run and kid to watch, but that doesn’t stop him from sleeping as much as he can. He sets timers, minimizes waste and maximizes efficiency. He drops off the face of the earth when patrol’s over and papers have been signed. He lies under his bed, cocooned and sleeping.

 

During a time when the whole household should be sleeping, Damian Wayne tiptoes into Tim’s bedroom. He quietly sniffles and kneels by the bed. “Drake,” he whispers, voice crackly and eyes puffy. He wipes them as he waits for Tim to answer.

 

Tim doesn’t open his eyes. “Hm?”

 

“Come out.” It’s a request phrased as an order. The boy braids his fingers and stares at them.

 

Blue eyes are revealed as Tim crawls from under the bed and wraps a blanket around his shoulders. He curls his socked feet around the fibers of the carpet, head drooping from fatigue. “What d’you need?” Tim asks.

 

“I need your opinion on a painting.” The comment drips of deceit, but also fear. Damian sets off for the art room, looking back every few seconds to ensure Tim’s still following him. He sits on the floor with a sketch and pencil, crossing his legs.

 

Tim sleepily plops down beside him. He blinks lethargically.

 

Guilt swarms Damian. Tim’s tired. _A sting._ Tim needs sleep. _Another._ He’s disturbing Tim’s sleep. _Red and swollen._ He’s glad he’s not allergic and that Tim understands his need for company.

 

The teen yawns, runs a few fingers across the picture. “Portrait,” he says, taking in the portrait of Dick Grayson. The young man smiles, and his eyes are wide and bright. He’s smiling crookedly and a strand of hair hangs over his forehead.

 

Damian nods.

 

“Lines are a bit smudged in the top right.” Tim tucks his hand back by him.

 

“It won’t show once I ink and color it.” He hates the portrait, but he can’t stop himself from working on it. It makes his heart beat harder, like it’s begging to be let out, to be freed from its cage. “Does it…” His eyes meet Tim’s.

 

“Just like him,” Tim whispers, not sounding sad. Damian’s not sure that Tim gets sad, though. Yes, it’s hypothesized that everyone gets sad, but Tim Drake is not everyone. He’s cold inside and out. He darts. He possibly feels, but it’s a numbed version if he does.

 

Damian’s never seen him cry. He’s yet to see Tim express joy, sorrow, jealousy, or anything else on the emotional spectrum. He’s an ice cube, and when Damian presses against him, the pain numbs for a while. It makes Tim a suitable companion in all this.

 

Tim is his companion, not a brother, not a parent. Familial relations require a warmth, and Tim’s not capable of it. Maybe he once was. Maybe the Court took it away. Maybe his parents did. Or— and Damian most subscribes to this belief— Tim was born without warmth.

 

Damian was born that way, cold. Dick Grayson gave him a match, and he learned from there. He wants to give Tim a match too, but he’s none but the used one Dick gave him and no idea where to get another one. He might burn Tim if he tries too hard, burn him or melt him.

And poor Tim— Poor Tim sniffles, lets Damian curl further into his side.

 

Damian finds himself back in the room. He rubs Tim’s thigh.

 

Tim hums.

 

He should take Tim back to bed, but he doesn’t want to be alone. He draws close to Tim, trying to feel something he felt whenever he joined Jason or Dick in bed. It comes when Tim wraps an arm around him. It makes him tingle.

 

They sit in silence for a few beats. One. Two.

 

“What will you do when you turn 18?”

 

“I dunno.”

 

“Will you pursue higher education?”

 

“Nah.”

 

Three. Four.

 

“What will you do when I turn 18?”

 

“Why?”

 

“You… Your debt to father will be—”

 

“I don’t owe B squat.”

 

Damian turns to look at Tim.

 

Tim doesn’t look back.

 

“He saved you from the Court, did he not?”

 

“He put me in a cold box for thirteen days.”

 

“Grayson never told me that.” Dick regaled all of the family’s history for Damian. Always said he was catching Damian up. _Context is important, kiddo._

 

“He didn’t know.”

 

“Did Todd know?”

 

“No.”

 

“Pennyworth?”

 

Tim nods, face inflectionless.

 

“But he didn’t—”

 

“It was an interrogation.”

 

“He kept you there until you told?”

 

Tim gives a breathy chuckle. “I didn’t tell.” He pauses. “Things are worse if you tell.” Such chihldish language for someone who seems to have lived forever, who’s been preserved by amber.

 

“Tell?” Damian asks incredulously.

 

“You said it first.”

 

“Not in that context.”

 

“You don’t tell. It’s like the first rule.”

 

“I know.” Every child soldier is taught it. “Why’d he let you out?”

 

“I got out.”

 

“How?”

 

“Played dead.”

 

“Then what’d you do?”

 

“I went back… then I left… then… I dunno. Then Bruce.”

 

Damian doesn’t understand the story of Tim’s lack of debt either. His father kept Tim and clothed him. Is that not a debt? It does feel nice, though, to know that Tim’s with by choice and not by duty. He inspects the arm around him, notices what looks like a dark stain. He runs his fingers over it, a question.

 

Five. Six.

 

“Drake?”

 

“Wayne.”

 

Damian doesn’t want Tim to go to sleep yet. He needs him up for a while longer, concious until he can slumber himself. He can’t be alone right now. He won’t. It’s selfish, but he’s still a child in the world’s eyes, so he’s allowed to be.

 

Seven. Eight. Ni—

 

“I do not want to attend school tomorrow.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Damian turns to look at Tim once again.

 

Tim stares at the ceiling.

 

He’s curious. He wants to know more about the time Batman stuck a talon in a cold box. Tales of his father always pull him in. He’s a quilt of stories told, squares sewn together by memories of the ones who told him. Damian knows all the stories of Batman and the Robins, but Tim wasn’t a Robin, and those stories have never been told.

 

Te--

 

“How’d he find you?”

 

“Hand warmers and a net.”

 

Dick told better stories. He described smells and textures and colors. He took Damian there. Tim’s cryptic. He won’t even give Damian a morsel. Is he trying to?

 

Tim yawns yet again.

 

Damian stands and takes the teen’s hand. “Come.” He takes Tim to his bed.

 

Tim doesn’t complain, lies down when Damian pushes him and curls up in the blankets. He cools the sheets, sucks the emotion out of the situation.

 

Damian’s glad for it. Now, he can sleep himself.

 

Ten.

***

Oh, how the mighty fall. Wouldn’t they rather soar? Since when did Robin mean ‘dead bird?’ When did the game end and the laughing stop? When did red mean blood and night mean battle? What do colonies do when their Bats get their wings clipped? What do they do when there’s only two left?

 

Damian never thought he’d be the one lecturing anyone, but Tim does not act as Batman would like him to, and there’s no one else to do it. _One._ “You hit him too hard.”

 

“Don’t know who you’re kissing up to,” Tim responds.

 

“I’m not kissing up to anyone. I’m merely suggesting you need to comport yourself better.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Yes. I am. Your behavior is not acceptable.”

 

“That’s too bad.”

 

They swing through the city. One last run then they can go home. Home where they’ll breathe.

 

They go home. They sit in bunker, sharpening batarangs and refilling belts.

 

 _Two._ “You need to comport yourself.”

 

Tim snorts. “You’re an incorrigible little boy.”

 

“And you’re a sociopath.”

 

“Worse things to be.”

 

“The Joker’s a sociopath.”

 

“Still. Worse things to be.”

 

“Like?”

 

“An incorrigible little boy.”

 

Tiffs are common between them. Only Damian says malicious things. Tim always sounds like he’s joking, though Damian’s not sure he is.

 

“I can send you away.”

 

“Can you?”

 

“Yes, I can. The penthouse is mine. You’re an interloper.”

 

Tim grins.

 

“I can send you to Canada.” _To Jack Drake, who lives in Canada with his wife and six cars._

 

It fades.


	4. Act IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m taking you, dear Reader, through time. Nothing too consequential has plagued our heroes, and life is too fleeting for one to stay present in one era for too long. Therefore, we come to a new 1939 Kane Street, an older one, a wiser one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to post these.

I’m taking you, dear Reader, through time. Nothing too consequential has plagued our heroes, and life is too fleeting for one to stay present in one era for too long. Therefore, we come to a new 1939 Kane Street, an older one, a wiser one.

They sit at the kitchen table, side by side because neither of them wants to take Jason’s seat.

Dark smudges color their eyes. Damian’s nose is broken but set. Tim’s wrist is cast. The room is dark. It smells of paint. A muted movie plays on the screen in the living room. Knives are scattered all over. The room is dead silent.

Damian’s right hand twitches. It’s stained with red paint. His teeth sink into his bottom lip.

Tim takes his hand.

Clicks of a baking timer that sits on the kitchen table.

Slowly the aroma of a strawberry fills the room.

Damian’s hand traces giant strawberries in the air. He silently slides off the chair and paints them on the wall: big red strawberries. He imagines the texture, the seeds that scratch one’s tongue. The fever is gone as quickly as it comes, and Damian drops the brush in midair, splattering the light wood with bloody red paint.

Tim flinches as the timer’s bell rings, the sound a pendulum ball in his ears and splitting his drums. He cups his ears and closes his glassy eyes. He takes a breath.

Tim stands and opens the oven, exposing his face to a blast of heat. He takes rubber oven mitts and sets the cake on the counter to cool. He closes the oven. He retrieves the frosting from the fridge to warm. He lowers onto the ground beside Damian.

They begin again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Damian leans back against Tim, eyes fluttering closed. He traces circles, clocks. He draws the two hands and the tick marks and the numbers and progresses. One year. Two years. Three years.

“I see you’ve taken the cake out, Master Timothy.” Alfred’s shoes clap against the floor. He sighs and wets a towel before wiping the countertop. “Master Bruce hopes to call later today.” He wrings the towel and leaves it to dry on the kitchen sink.

Alfred Pennyworth disappeared for years. No one knows where he went. He left a note saying he was to get groceries. He returned with three brown grocery bags two days ago, nearly having his head cut off, as he entered with a key rather than knocking. Alfred tidies the rest of the kitchen, quietly humming. He’s the only normality in 1939 Kane Street.

The boys now know that Bruce Wayne isn’t dead, but they’d trade his death for the life of someone present, someone who didn’t fake his death for an undisclosed mission; someone who wouldn’t leave them alone for their adolescence then try to redact that fact by requesting help through the form of another, supposedly valid mission; someone who wouldn’t ask them to put their lives on the line when they’re much too tired to keep doing it.

Yet, they listen like the good little soldiers they are and return just in time for the momentous occasion that is Damian Wayne’s 15th birthday. They return heartbroken, smited, and wounded.

Damian much prefers what they did his last birthday. Tim took him to a petting zoo. It’d been a relaxing, sunny day, and they’d gotten ice cream after. The air had smelled like molasses. Everything had been happy. He much prefers his last birthday to today’s. Today, he has a headache that gnaws at the back of his head, a throbbing nose, and soreness that won’t go away.

Tim doesn’t prefer anything. He merely thinks. He can’t smile. He can’t frown. He runs statements over and over again in his head, struggling to summon cathexis for their current situation. He needs some sentiment to attach to this moment.

Alfred Pennyworth is merely helping his child. He’s putting things in order. He’s cleaning up the mess. He’s fixing everything because that’s what a good parent does. _Isn’t it?_ He takes his leather medical bag and approaches his child’s children. He kneels, opens the bag, snaps on latex gloves, and raises Damian’s shirt to change the bandage.

Damian jumps.

Tim soothes him, tapping his hand because his voice is gone from a hit to his larynx. One. Two.

Damian taps back. Three. Four.

Five. Six.

Seven. Eight.

Nine. Ten.

***

Damian Wayne does not do well with change. He never has. He never will. He’s dealt with a lot of change in his life, but the past few years have been the steadiest he’s ever had. Tim’s all he needs, and Tim can’t die. That’s all he’s needed. He doesn’t like Alfred (never has) or his father’s decision to disappear for years with not so much as a text. He doesn’t like their trying to force their way back into his life either.

So, he runs.

Well, he takes Tim, and he runs.

“Where’re we going?” Tim asks.

Damian drags Tim along by the hand. “Away.”

“Away to?”

“The Museum.”

“Don’t you have school?”

“No.”

Tim nods, leaving well enough alone and allowing himself to be dragged along the busy streets of Gotham.

***

Ownership’s a special thing, dear Reader. Ownership determines one’s place in life. If you own a lot of things, you are better than those who own less things. The haves and the have-nots have been around since the beginning of time, and civilization has taken great measures to instill into eternity. One of these measures is property: the idea of property, the selling of property, the disputing of property.

Tim Drake belongs to Damian Wayne, and Damian did not sell or barter Tim. He’s owned Tim since he was twelve. It only makes sense that Tim will always be his now. No one even claimed Tim until the day Jason Todd died.

Besides, Tim likes Damian. He’s never said so, but he’s also made no effort to leave when nothing’s keeping him tethered to Damian. He gives Damian his shallow smiles and follows him whenever Damian requires it. He’s well aware he’s the property of Damian Wayne, and he doesn’t at all dislike that.

Now, we arrive at the climax.

Bruce Wayne has returned. He once had some sort of right to Tim Drake. He once had a stake in Tim’s future, Tim’s life. He’s the one who found Tim, after all. When he returns to Gotham and to 1939 Kane Street, he beckons Tim back to him.

Tim obliges, the good little talon he is, always looking to please, doing what he’s told and nothing else, making no use of his free will and functioning mind, allowing himself to be sequestered, cloistered, a mere egocentricity in the lives of Waynes.

It’s ambiguous as to whose fault this is. The Batman can most be blamed for it: kidnapping a child soldier and not assimilating him, keeping the child in a cold box for interrogation before deciding to convert him to the other side. It’s a horrid thing to do, a selfish thing to do, twistedly heroic.

Tim Drake’s been crossed more times than one can count. Everyone’s lucky he doesn’t know numbers.

“Drake,” Damian calls. He’s upset Tim’s curled up to nap by Bruce, who sits in the living room reading the paper and drinking coffee as if he isn’t an absentee father and the villain of our story. He’s why they died, they being Dick Grayson and Jason Todd. He sent them on missions, and they returned in caskets. It’s amazing Damian and Tim hadn’t figured it out. It’s only when they were given a death mission all their own they learned the truth.

Tim cracks an eye open.

“Come.” They’re not speaking to Bruce. Tim doesn’t talk much these days, anyway, so really it’s just Damian, but anything works at the moment. “Come,” Damian repeats.

Tim submissively slinks off the sofa to go Damian’s art room. He naps beside Damian’s paintings. He’s given a new blanket that isn’t bloodied by the Batman’s hands and has been warmed in the dryer.

Damian settles in front of a canvas. He’s doing a portfolio for college applications, hoping he can gain acceptance and abridge his high school career to one year. The focus is colors. He contrasts abstract landscapes with romantic animals, people, and plants. He paints a little girl on a swing. Her skin is a tan tortilla, and she has long chocolate hair braided up into a ponytail. Her eyes are brown as well.

He hasn’t thought about his mother in a long while, and her childhood is something he knows much about. She would tell him over tea on nights she snuck into his room in the compound for a hug and sparring match. She’d sip mint tea, and he’d taste it on her lips when she’d kiss him goodbye.

Damian returns to the present to make his next stroke, he’s beginning a swirl of a sky, a vortex, a destiny, an undeterred fate.

***

Under 1939 Kane Street is a bunker out of which Batman, Red Robin, Robin, and Agent A operate. This is where they predominantly go when something is wrong. Patrol goes very wrong and bruises are made. The most worrisome development, though, is a bullet in Tim’s middle. What makes this most worrisome is Tim’s lack of self-preservation and refusal to tell anyone but Damian.

He would tell Bruce or Alfred, but he’d rather not be touched while his skin is pins and needles. His head pounds, his abdomen throbs, and he’d rather lose some of his intestine before Alfred or Bruce tended to his injury.

He’s never liked Alfred’s care, and Bruce made him feel safe once upon a time, but that story is too long finished to be relevant in this moment. A new book has started. It’s not of the first series, not even of the same genre. Batman’s not the hero, he’s the villain. Alfred is a henchman, and Damian’s the hero. Tim belongs on the side of good. He’s not a mentor, but he fights on the side of the hero. He considers himself a confidant, an advisor.

In light of the setting in which we lay our scene, Tim hides in the corner of the bunker cold, in pain, and quiet. He closes his eyes to listen to the absence of sound sans Bruce’s typing and Alfred’s cleaning. Damian’s not back yet. He’s gone to Metropolis to patrol with Jon Kent. He should be back in the next hour.

##  ********************************************************************

Bruce notices Tim after half an hour. He’s been studying him out of the corner of his eye the whole time, but it’s now obvious something’s wrong. He leaves his chair and comes to the small space Tim occupies.

The teen’s shivering, arms wrapped around himself; he bites his lip hard.

Bruce kneels in front of him. He meets Tim’s golden eyes, wondering why he hadn’t noticed the change and seen Tim was cold sooner.

Tim’s eyes phase between the two colors, not staying on one for more than a second. He flinches when Bruce touches him.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce raises his hands in surrender.

Tim releases his bottom lip. He takes a breath, and his eyes settled on blue.

Bruce scans Tim for injuries, pulling Tim’s hands away. There’s dried blood around a deep wound. He sifts through reasons Tim wouldn’t tell him, but he can’t find any. Bruce lifts Tim bridal style, surprised at how weightless he felt.

Tim’s head lolls to the side, hiding in Bruce’s chest. He shivers, sighs, goes limp.

“It’s okay.” It’s not clear who Bruce is speaking to.

***

“You almost killed him.” Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides. He sits in his chair in the bunker. His cowl is pulled down, and his brows are creased. He’s angry.

Damian’s smaller. It’s the one noticeable thing about this scene. He’s barely average height, and he doesn’t stand with his chest puffed out like he used to, tamed by time. His hands rest on his hips, but they don’t squeeze them. His voice is calm. “I’d have him if you hadn’t—”

Bruce stands abruptly, knocking the chair to the side. “That’s not the point.”

“The mission’s objective was to capture him, was it not?”

“Not at the cost of his life.”

“He killed 23 people tonight. Do they not deserve vengeance?”

“Justice, not vengeance, Damian. I’ve told you—”

“Yes yes.” Damian waves his hand and pivots, trudging towards the showers.

Bruce then turns his attention to Tim.

Tonight, Tim went on a mission alone. He collected data, he reported, he came home. He sits in the corner in soft sweatpants and a t-shirt. He yawns over a copy of _The Tempest_. He is bored and tired and a smidge cold, and he wishes Damian would hurry so they can go upstairs and drink tea.

“Tim,” Bruce calls. He walks over to him. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” Tim responds.

“That’s good.”

“Sure is.”

Bruce wants to ask about Damian. He doesn’t know how to count like Tim does and Dick did. He and Damian trip over numbers and skip whole rows. That’s why it doesn’t work.

Tim smells like water, ivory soap. He licks his lips and leaves his bottom lip in his mouth to bite it. “He doesn’t like you,” Tim says, flipping the page in his book.

“Damian?”

Tim nods.

“Do you know why?”

“You know why.”

Bruce nods. He takes a breath. “Do you like me still?”

“I never liked you.” Tim doesn’t look up to meet his gaze. “We’re just pretending, Bruce… pretending you didn’t tase me and throw me in a cold box, pretending I’m not meant to drive a dagger through your heart, pretending I play anything but a supporting role in this whole affair…”

Tim’s the inspiration for all my narration, dear Reader. He understands life is just a story. He understands some lives are more important than others. He accepts his role as the Batfamily’s sprite. He likes it, even.

“You can’t father him. He’s too old for that.”

“How do you know?”

“Every week,” Tim starts. “Every week, I get a letter from Victoria addressed to Timothy Jackson Drake Wayne.”

Bruce still looks lost, lips parted.

“The need for a father is a vestige. Adapt.”

“Adapt?”

Tim nods.

They recede into silence for a few beats.

“Tim.”

Tim turns his head to meet Bruce’s eyes.

“You’re… you know you— This is your home, too.”

Damian emerges from the showers with a towel around his neck, stomping up the stairs.

He doesn’t have to say anything before Tim’s following.

***

Alfred Pennyworth believes he could’ve done his child better than he has, but he also believes he’s done the best he could considering the circumstances he was given. He only hopes his child’s disturbedness won’t hurt any innocent bystanders. He’s not sure if his child’s children are one of them.

Alfred wraps gauze around the stab wound in his child’s forearm. Some of the bone is shattered, and the blood took twenty minutes to calm and stop gushing. It’s not clear (to Alfred, anyway) whose fault it is that Bruce has been stabbed, though it is most obvious that Tim stabbed him. Alfred dislikes those who hurt his child, but he’s not sure he can hold malice towards one who’s a child themselves.

We move our view to the roof of 1939 Kane Street, and here sits Tim and Damian.

Damian holds one of Tim’s limp hands in his. He gnaws at his lip and gazes over at Tim only occasionally. He’s not sure what happened and if he caused it. “I don’t think he was going to…”

Tim’s voice is so quiet, quieter than usual. “He was.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen it.” One. Two. “He broke Jay’s jaw once.”

“Broke it?”

Tim nods. Three. Four.

“I didn’t—”

“You shouldn’t.”

Five. Six.

“Did he ever… you?”

Tim shakes his head. “He’s always used the box.” Tim’s not bad. He doesn’t talk back. He does what he’s told mission wise. The only thing he has done is withheld information Bruce wanted or needed. “I got hypothermia.”

“How long were you there?”

“Until Jason decided Bruce was crazy and called Dick to get me out.”

“Why couldn’t he do it?”

“He already had a broken jaw.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tim breathily chuckles. “He’s crazy. You do know that?”

“Have you ever told him that?”

“I honestly thought he knew until tonight.”

Seven.

“I saw Grayson in Moscow.”

Tim doesn’t answer. Damian sees a lot of things. They’re only to keep him sane, Tim thinks.

“Grayson has blue eyes.”

“That he does.”

“Todd has blue eyes.”

“Mmhm.”

“Father has blue eyes.” Damian turns to Tim. “I’d like you more if you had blue ones.”

Tim shrugs. “They’re not blue right now?”

Damian sniffles. “No. You have gold peppered in.” Tears prick his eyes. Damian wipes them.

Tim pulls him into a gentle hug, warm tears wetting his shirt. He rubs circles into Damian’s back. He doesn’t speak. Tim isn’t aware of his way with words. He may as well be a mute. Tim stands and takes Damian along with him, holding up half of the traumatized boy’s weight. He wraps an arm around Damian’s waist.

They go back inside 1939 Kane Street and to Damian’s bedroom. Tim gingerly removes Damian’s suit and uses an adhesive removing wipe to take off the domino. “Shorts or pants?”

Damian sleepily slumps against Tim. He wraps his arms around the teen’s middle. Damian’s upset, and Tim hates to see Damian upset. An upset and tired Damian is not pleasing. “Shorts,” he mutters.

Tim uses one arm to take out a t-shirt and shorts.

Damian dresses himself, and lies down when Tim pushes him onto the bed.

Tim covers him with a thin blanket. He perches on the bed beside Damian’s head, waiting for the teen to go to sleep. His fingers run through Damian’s locks. Eight.

“Did he hit Grayson?”

“He always apologizes after.”

“Does he love us?”

“As much as he knows how.” Nine.

“He’s mad I killed a man.”

“He has more blood on his hands now than you ever will. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you see Grayson?” Non-sequitur is Damian’s strong suit.

“Sometimes.”

“When?”

“When I want to.”

Damian opens his mouth to say something else, but Tim presses a finger to his lips. He taps morse code. _Play sleep._

Bruce enters the bedroom. “Tim.”

“Bruce.”

“I…” Bruce doesn’t finish the thought. “I bought tickets to see _Pillowman_.”

Tim nods.

“I’m wondering if you wanted to go.”

“When is it?”

“6 o’ clock tomorrow. I figured an early show would get us back on time for patrol.”

Tim blinks. Bruce knows. This isn’t a play. It’s a different production, a colder one. “I guess.”

“Good. We’ll leave at 5.” Bruce leaves the room.

“Be careful.”

“I will.” Ten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed it, dear Reader.


	5. Act V

It’s a new era. More years have passed. The drama between the Bats has settled into its nearly nostalgic tension. Damian Wayne sits on the roof of 1939 Kane Street, slightly drunk. Damian’s pupils aren’t dilated, though, and his syllables are cleanly cut. Tim is beside him, not nearly as intoxicated but just as melancholic, though it is his natural state.

One.

“How’s Oxford?”

“Fine.”

Two.

“Partying much?”

A smile. “Of course.”

Three.

”I think Bruce might miss you.”

“The feeling’s not mutual.”

Four.

Damian takes a swig. His throat burns. He hands the bottle to Tim.

Tim sips. “Dick’ll kill us.”

“Germany, I think.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Not really.”

Five.

“There’re whispers,” Tim says.

“In your head or real?”

“Real, I think.”

“You think?”

“Knowing’s hard.”

“What do they say?”

“Granite and lime.” Tim hands Damian back the beer bottle.

Six.

“Do you ever go out?”

“Bruce took me to see Oedipus Rex two weeks ago.”

“Without him, I mean.”

Tim takes one of Damian’s hands, shrugging. “You know him… he’s weird.”

“Possessive.”

“I could go if I wanted to.”

“Not that you would,” Damian sighs, taking his hand back.

“Not that I would.”

Seven.

“You were in the paper two days ago.”

Damian empties the bottle.

“Dami Wayne.”

“Hm.”

“Brucie chuckled.”

“Figures.”

Crackle. Pop.

Eight.

“I hate you.”

“Me too.”

Gulp. Pale fingers card through oddly clean hair.

Nine.

“Bed?”

“No.”

“Alfred wants your help shopping tomorrow.”

“Maybe.”

Relapse implies one stops in the first place. Can one be addicted to stopping? Obsessed with finding things to plug the leaky hole in their heart and soul? Or does addiction mean sick, unwell? Does it mean one’s actions are making them worse off then they were before, but they’re in a vicious cycle to solve all the problems? Addiction means circular reasoning. It postulates that making the outsides match the insides fixes everything.

Ten.

***

A needle pokes into the top right corner of Damian’s brain. His vision blurs. His nose leaks. Air scratches against the back of his raw throat every moment he tries to breathe without disturbing his sensitive, dry nostrils.

He bites his tongue. He’s struggling. He’s struggling not to feel, not to groan, not to cry out.

Damian didn’t plan on being sick the week of Thanksgiving. He planned on hiding in his art room, entirely well and avoiding his father’s gaze until dinner on Thursday.

He wipes his eyes, and he paints. He paints black and gray because all the other colors blind him. He paints lines and dots because he doesn’t have the faculties for real shapes. He ends up lying down in front of the canvas, sniffling and coughing.

He stills. He listens to his wheezing. He detaches himself from reality.

Then,

A touch.

He flails, pulling a dagger from his sock and holding it to the assailant’s neck.

Bruce catches his wrist. “It’s just me,” he says. The voice is almost pitying.

Damian coughs into his fist. The cough turns into a fit. His lungs rattle.

Damian’s father holds him, hugging the teen to his chest. “Breathe,” he says. “In and out,” he says. “There you go,” he says.

He slumps against Bruce, indulging himself in the coolness of the back of Bruce’s hand. He hums, eyes slipping closed as soothing circles are rubbed into his back.

“Here, let’s go to bed.” It’s sad how easily he can pick Damian up.

Damian curls into him, curling tighter when he’s laid on the bed.

Bruce presses a cold towel to his face. “You’re sick.”

Damian sniffs and rolls onto his side. “Where’s Tim?”

“Alfred—”

“Don’t lie.”

Bruce is trying his hardest to learn how to count. No one’s ever taught him how, but he thinks he can learn from Damian if he pays enough attention. One. “He’s… occupied. Wouldn’t talk to me.”

“And?”

“He’s on the roof.”

Three.

“Why don’t you let him leave?”

“What?”

“It’s not good to keep him here.” Damian’s the only one who understands Tim’s not in the world enough. He’s never been the most present person, but it’s gotten worse over the years. He needs to be present. It’s not healthy to be absent so much.

“I don’t make him stay.”

“You don’t make him go.”

Bruce nods. “What can I do then?” The Batman doesn’t ask for help. Apparently, Bruce Wayne does.

“Send him to get me Oxymetazoline, Acetaminophen, and Guaifenesin.”

“Alfred can—”

“Send Timothy. It will take him longer, but he needs to get out.” Small assignments have always helped. Damian thinks maybe he should share more for Tim’s sake. He’s sure Tim will die younger than he’s set to if not, and he needs Tim alive as long as possible.

“Should I go with him?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Five.

Bruce awkwardly joins Damian on the bed. He pulls Damian into his side. “Dami Wayne?”

“I’d rather not be branded a sociopath and ostracized.”

“So you had to sink a yacht?”

Damian sniffles. “You’ve done worse.”

“You’re not in trouble, Damian.”

Damian gazes up at him. He lays his head against Bruce’s chest.

Seven.

Tim wanders in through the window, eyes blue but vacant. He shivers as he crawls under the blankets on Bruce’s other side. His nose nuzzles Bruce’s bicep until Bruce raises it for him. Then he nestles under it.

“Did you get the medicine?” Bruce asks.

Tim doesn’t answer, sighing.

“Tim.”

“Leave him be,” Damian mutters, rousing.

“He was supposed to get your medicine.”

Damian rolls out of Bruce’s embrace. “I’m well aware.” Damian yawns, laying his head on a pillow. “You should go.”

“Why?”

“He’ll get sick.”

Bruce stands, pulling Tim along by the upper arm. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He’ll leave Tim to Alfred. Tim can’t cook, but his subpar company is what Alfred often calls ‘moral support.’

Nine.

“I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Ten.

***

We learn to count when we’re in preschool. One… Two…Three. That’s where we start. We eventually add the numbers up to ten. Then, we stop. We’re not sure what’s after that. So, we begin again, counting only to ten and nowhere higher. We go, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. We stop.

Eventually, new numbers have to be learned, or the world won’t go on.

“I’m going to die,” Damian says.

“Where?” Tim asks.

“In a ditch.”

“Outside?”

“The manor.”

“With?”

“A sword in my chest.”

“And?”

“Apology on my tongue.”

“That’d be beautiful in pastel,” Alfred notes. He’s taken to doing his mending in Damian’s art room while Bruce has him keeping an eye on them. He’s disrupted the thought, smeared the art in their heads with a dirty black fingerprint. Damian minds this more than Tim. It’s clear through his huff. “Of course,” Alfred says, “I suppose watercolor could also do it justice.”

Damian moves to sit up.

Tim sets a hand on his chest. “You’re going to die in a ditch outside the manor with a sword in your chest and apology on your tongue. The only question is why.”

“There is no why. Purpose in death is for the weak-minded.” Damian relaxes under Tim’s touch.

Tim rolls his eyes. “What do you think, Alfred?” Tim’s always been the bridge between Damian and everyone else. He patched it up when Dick died.

Alfred smiles but doesn’t answer.

This scene doesn’t have counting like the others. The reason is Alfred’s presence. He interjects and dislodges any attempts at-oneness. He makes them separate entities. Three.

Minutes pass. The grandfather clock ticks.

***

Screams.

Screams are all that can be heard in 1939 Kane Street. Screams are the tone. Screams are the setting. Screams that can’t be characterized. It’s too loud, and the emotions screech over each other. It’s too bright. This scene can’t be set, not for a little while anyway.

So, dear Reader, I’ll take you to the aftermath as I often do. The action is blinding. Hindsight, though, is 20/20.

An awake Tim Drake holds a dozing Damian Wayne in his arms in the designated art room 1939 Kane Street. Tim’s shirt is damp from tears as he’s propped up against the wall. His fingers crawl up and down Damian’s back. His lips are dry and stick together. His cold heart drips.

Damian isn't sleeping. He’s tired, and his eyes droop, but he’s not sleeping. He wants to sleep. He needs to sleep. He can’t. His arms are limp around Tim. His eyes blink slowly. He clenches the soft cotton.

“Go on,” Tim says softly. “Right here.”

He drops off, clutching Tim’s middle tighter a few seconds before losing grip completely. Soft snores trickle out, and his heavy breathing weighs Tim down.

Bruce Wayne peeks into the room. He pads in quietly and takes a seat at a 45 degrees diagonal from both of the boys he considers his. He gingerly takes Damian from Tim and pulls the teen to his chest.

Damian’s eyes flutter up to Bruce then back to Tim, emerald eyes glimmering under papery lids.

“I didn’t know,” Bruce mumbles in Damian’s hair. “I didn’t know.”

***

Life can’t be all sad. At some point, after wallowing in sorrow for sometimes months on end, one needs a break. They need to come up above and take a breath of solace. The Bats are no different. Their song has the same tune. They’re hearts beat to the same drum.

“That was a good one,” Bruce notes, playing chess with Damian on the side of the pool. He wipes the sweat from his damp brow and makes another move before pressing the plunger on his clock, a deadly smirk on his face.

Damian wears the same expression, though it is crinkled by the teen’s disposition to focus too hard on even the smallest endeavors. He’s trying to calculate Bruce’s next move, Bruce’s next twelve steps. He needs to know. He needs to win. “I know,” he mumbles, moving a piece over.

Bruce chuckles. “You could lighten up.”

“Says the Bat him— Checkmate.” Damian grins widely, chest puffing out from his victory.

Bruce is surprised the boy won considering he hadn’t been trying to let him win, but he chose to put his ego aside and be happy for the boy he calls his nonetheless. It’s better this way, to see Damian happy, to see Damian home, to see Damian glad to be home.

Damian turns, frown already returning. “Where’s Drake?”

Tim lies limp in the pool flat on his face. His eyes are closed. He doesn’t breathe. He’s reserved plenty of oxygen for this occasion. He’s acting out a scene he saw once. Only, the water was blood, and the person lying face down was dead. He thinks he saw it yesterday on patrol. It was a woman, and the woman had chestnut brown hair and peach skin, just like a person he used to know. He doesn’t remember the name of the woman (Bruce had told him), and he blocks out the name of the person he used to know.

He tries to remember the former when muffled voices disturb the letters as he typed them onto a page. He ignores them, starting his game again. He sifts through the alphabet, searching for the first letter. He almost has it when a hand wraps around his forearm.

Glass shatters. Paper burns. The thought is gone, and the jolt to reality’s caused Tim to breathe in water. The world is black before it is bright. He’s pressed against Bruce’s chest, back being patted as he coughs up salty chlorine doused water.

When Tim is done coughing, Bruce rubs circles into his back. “You okay?” he asks, sitting Tim up a little.

Tim nods mutely, breathing deeply to build back up his reserve. His glances at Damian, who sits anxiously in front of Tim, eyes scanning him for any issues. The boy loves to calculate, to figure out what’s exactly wrong with the talon he considers an older brother. Tim’s always tried to tell him he can’t be reasoned out, but Damian’s yet to listen. “I didn’t drown,” Tim says to no one in particular.

“Of course not. You’d be dead,” Damian snaps back, worrying exchanging places with annoyance. “You’re fortunate Father plucked you out.”

Tim still leans against Bruce, fingers playing the drawstring of the man’s swim trunks. He doesn’t answer, only gazes at Damian with gold-speckled eyes.

Damian rolls his eyes. He stands and walks into the house, bare feet not making a sound.

“You scared him.” Bruce brushes Tim’s damp bangs.

Tim wants the thought back.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! I'm publishing this 6/21/19, but it'll read 6/22/2019 since it's 11:38pm. Comment if you like!


	6. Act VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That makes two of us.

We’ve been here before, dear Reader. Our heroes have been here a million times over, but this is the second time we’re seeing a scene like today’s. The sky is dark and gloomy, and hail punches the windows of 1939 Kane Street. The lights in the home are most all off.

 

They sit at the kitchen table, side by side because neither of them wants to take anyone’s seat.

 

Dark smudges color their eyes. Damian’s torso is splattered with deep bruises. Tim’s nose is swollen shut. The room smells of acrylic. A muted documentary plays on the screen in the living room. Knives are scattered all over. The room’s died from the silence. The counter’s broken.

 

Damian blinks. His eyes dart to the painted walls. He wants to start again, to paint over the strawberries and mushrooms and butterflies. They’ve all died and rotted, and the acrid odor sears his nostrils. “Tim,” he says.

 

“Dames,” Tim responds, voice even more adenoidal than usual. He doesn’t look over.

 

“I can’t breathe in here.” Damian’s being honest. He’s almost never honest, straightforward. He’s still not asking for what he wants. He wants to drag Tim outside onto the roof where he’ll get pneumonia from the rain to make the cold he has even worse. He wants Tim to fix his lungs and make him breathe.

 

“We can go out.” Tim can’t breathe either, but air won’t fix it. He can’t sneeze or sniffle. He’s stopped up from something not of his cold’s design. He can’t breathe, and it objectively hurts worse than Damian’s, but subjectives are our matter.

 

Damian turns to him, their eyes meeting. He stares into the puddles that are Tim’s. “Out? You don’t go out.”

 

“I go out.”

 

“No you don’t.” Pettiness shall save them.

 

Tim scratches his eyebrow. “Yes. I do.”

 

“No. You don’t.”

 

“I went out yesterday.”

 

“Out of the penthouse doesn’t mean out. Out means you leave the building.”

 

“I left the building today.”

 

“Patrol doesn’t count.”

 

“Why are you dead set on making me out to be a hermit?”

 

“Because you are a hermit.” Damian’s lips press together, serious. “And I can’t breathe in here.”

 

“We’ll go out.”

 

Damian lays his head on the table, biting back a whimper and blinking back tears. “Are they even coming?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

“What are we supposed to do, Tim? Set off balloons in the sky or paper lanterns? Light a candle? Step onto a pyre?” An unbated tear rolls down his cheek. “It’s not fair.”

 

Tim doesn’t answer.

 

“I can’t breathe in here.”

 

“That makes two of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There was a time when meanings were focused and reality could be fixed; when that sort of belief disappeared, things became uncertain and open to interpretation." -- Bridget Riley

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is whatatime30 and updates will be weekly. It's all written out and edited.


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